


Alliance

by Comedia



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Shepard decides to leave gang-life behind and join the Alliance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alliance

The building is a dark spear piercing the clear sky. It’s impressive, and gets the message “don’t fuck with us” across very well. He can’t help but to wonder if the Admirals specifically asked the architects for that; not all houses can give the onlooker the middle finger simply by being in their line of sight.

He’s already holding his bag tight, but standing outside like this – looking up – his grip hardens even more. If the meaning of life is “owning the most stuff” he’s gotten a real bad start; he packed in less than ten minutes. The bag weighs about as much as his leather jacket, and he tries not to think about how his life, up until now, so easily could be jammed into a backpack. It’s yet another reminder that home is still far away, no matter where he’s at. Hell, he’d feel more like an alien going back to his parent’s house now than he would if he were to join a Turian circus. Not that Turians have circuses, at least not ones they let the outside world know about.

Hesitating outside isn’t as much about fearing that the rumors about the human military might be true as much as it is realizing how much his life will change.

The Alliance is a machine. There are thousands of applicants just like him. In the Reds he knew his place and the others knew not to challenge him, it was an easy life. Now everything is uncertain. Many soldiers die faceless on the battlefield, or worse, in a crash after a ship malfunctions. They die without ever meeting the Admiral who sent them out there; names like Hackett and Anderson remain legends rather than people part of the same team.

He’s ridiculously inexperienced. Yeah, he’s held a gun and had his fair share of hand to hand combat, but who hasn’t? There isn’t anything special about him. He could always mention that one bar-fight when he headbutted a Hanar though, that should get their attention if nothing else.

Entering the massive building he knows that he’s not likely to ever reach the top floor and the title that comes with it. It’s not like the VIP section where you just need the secret word or the right contacts, to ever experience the view from up there you have to work hard. But when being part of something so big working hard usually means doing the same thing everyone else is doing. He knows that he’ll probably end up being just another footsoldier, and he’s fine with that. 

He’s not really leaving anyone behind. Sure, there are a few people out there he’ll miss, but in a few weeks they’ll be nothing more than memories. There’s no room for emotional attachments anymore, but that’s no big sacrifice. What are the chances of meeting someone in the military anyway? Hooking up with a handsome, biotic Liutenant? Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.

He won’t change the world and he won’t be the person to stop a war or save entire races, hell, not even Hackett can brag about those kinds of accomplishments. At best he’ll see a few cool planets, shoot some bad guys and at least assist in winning a few battles. This is all so much larger than him, larger than life, but that’s what he wants right now. He wants to do something meaningful, because that’s more than he could ever hope to do with the Reds. 

A man in Alliance blues looks up as he enters the reception. The counter is metallic and polished to such perfection that he can see his reflection staring back at him.

“I’d like to apply.”

He’s used to people staring at the scar, but when the man glances at the cut breaking the otherwise symmetric buzz-cut he regrets not wearing a hat. Scars never seem to give good first impressions.

“And your name is?”

“John Shepard.” There’s an awkward pause as he stops himself from pointing out that he prefers people calling him by his last name.

“That’s catchy.”

“You think so?” Thankfully the man is browsing his datapad, missing John’s eyes widening with surprise.

“Yeah, sounds like the name of a war-hero.”

Shepard laughs. “Yeah, I don’t think so. But I guess I’m glad it doesn’t sound like the name of a moron-that-shot-himself-in-the-foot-the-first-day or… something.”

There’s another awkward silence. The social stuff really isn’t his thing. He was always good in tense situations, talking people down on behalf of the Reds when things got bad. This is different though. When there aren’t weapons and psychopaths involved it’s like everything he says turns into oddly worded rambles. He’ll have to work on that; you can’t be part of the group that represents humanity if you’re shit at interacting with people.

He’s handed a datapad, and looking at his dossier he can’t help but to smile. It’s almost empty; a second chance waiting just a few clicks away.

There are so many ways to do something meaningful, and even if he ends up doing nothing more than taking a bullet for his Commander, well, it’s not the same as heroically surviving a Thresher Maw attack or something crazy like that… but it’d be enough.


End file.
